Long Day
by laroseanglaise
Summary: The forgotten child of the Brick, Azelma and her father discuss the future.


"Daron, I'm _tired_." Azelma said, sitting on a barrel. "I don't want to do this anymore."

"Do what?" Thénardier asked his daughter. His last daughter, as if it were something that made it matter more. Her being the last one. The final thread in a swiftly unraveling destiny.

"_This_. Haven't we learned? Nothing changes." she said bitterly, picking a thick knot out of her hair. "This won't work." She added, eyeing him from underneath her hair.

"'Zelma... cherie... ma fille..." he said, shifting closer. "Really... there's nothing left for us here. We have money now. We're going to America. You'll like it there-"

"No, daron, I _won't_. I'm _tired_." She insisted, combing the knot with her fingers. "So what if there's nothing left for us here... there's nothing left for us _anywhere_ you know." she said with a small glare. Azelma straightened her back, preening a little. "I shouldn't have to go with you. I'm a woman now."

Thénardier gave a harsh, barking laugh. "Ah, a _woman_. Ma petite fille a _woman_ now, that's what she says, oui. Tell me, 'Zelma, ma fille, what would a _woman_ like you _do_ on her own?" He coughed into his sleeve in one quick motion that made it look like he was punching himself across the nose. "Do you have _any_ idea what this world does to _women_ like you? Alone and degenerate and utterly _lost_, ma fille? Do you?" he asked louder this time, leaning into her face. "Do you want to be a whore, ma fille?"

"Daron!" she replied sharply, her nose and lips wrinkling into a sour little frown. "I'd find someone. We'd marry and... and you'll see." she said with an air of freshly forged confidence. "You'd see. We'd be perfectly happy and live under a new name." She adjusted her dress for emphasis. "You'd see, daron."

"Daron, daron." he said, pacing, mocking her. "No more 'daron'. We're respectable now. You'll call me 'Papa' or "Mon Père'. No more of this "Daron" and nonsense. You'll speak like a proper girl and say "papa"." he nodded firmly, wagging his bony finger at her as if she were a dog or a naughty little child. He stared her down for a moment, taking in the dirt on her feet, on her dress, under her nails, in her hair, her eyes, her teeth. He evaluated the faded pink cotton and remarked to himself that it was an unbecoming shade, that it was too small, the sleeves only touched her forearms, too short, too worn. Her face was too pointed at the bottom and her cheeks complained of sickness and starvation. Her eyes were too narrow and not pretty enough to be Oriental, and her hair was unkempt and knotted.

In short, given resource, bad. Hopefully, capable of improvement. Much like his stained and patched coat.

The girl shivered. "What does it matter what I call you? We're not going anywhere." she hissed.

"You will _go _where I _tell_ you, ma fille." he hissed back, poking her sharply in the arm. "You think you can talk to me, your papa, that way and get by, I'll tell you-"

"I'm all you have _left, _daron!" she snapped. "Your femme is dead! Your fille is _dead_! Your lackeys are gone and we have _nothing_!"

"So what if they're dead?" he shouted, glaring bitterly through narrowed black eyes. "Who cares! Your mother and sister can rot in Hell! What use are they to us now, _dead_! Forget them!" he shouted, turning on his heels and pacing viciously. "We will get _nowhere_ mourning them, ma fille, and don't you _forget_!"

"Maybe I want to forget! Maybe I-" Azelma coughed violently, almost falling backwards. Her father caught her, just barely, and balanced her on the barrel.

"Hey, _hey_, ma fille, not so hard. We mustn't shout, eh, not ladylike, is it?" He drew a yellowing handkerchief from his greasy coat pocket and held it over her mouth. "Now, now, calm _down_, won't you, there's a good fille..." he urged gently, the sudden drive to keep this last frayed thread alive hanging prominently in his mind. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her sharp little shoulders, cursing softly. "You're just cold. A little cold, eh?"

"_Daron_..." she mumbled, pulling the coat closer. "Je ne suis pas un _enfant_..." She coughed a little more, huddling under the coat.

He gave her a wide, toothy grin. "You're _mon enfant_, ma fille." He ruffled her hair and patted her shoulders. "You're shaping into a fine femme." He tapped her shoulder. "You get some rest, ma fille. Tomorrow is a long day."

She sighed. "Oui. Long day."


End file.
